Long Barbed wire Poems
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South Of The (United States) Border...
(Reigns A Welter Of Disorder)
Caravans comprising multitudinous
peoples plodded a steady course
analogous to iron filings drawn by
strong magnetic force
gravitational pull generated
by North America
an irresistible source,
which tug felt
nearly all the way round
webbed wide world beckoning
for waves of humanity
figuratively donned as spawning fish,
toward which currently dimming
beacon of democracy flickr
Trump might extinguish
though tis quite heart
breaking to experience
vicariously as one collective soul,
these desperate folks
ambitious to seek asylum,
(and eventual citizenship),
while this "FAKE" president
invents many a...holy SMOKES
outrageous, nefarious, and malicious
dagger o type cruel barbed wire
accusing, condemning, and emasculating,
(I could continue),
but ye dear reader would tire
unless individuals
affected by xenophobia
countenance same stance
as Commander in Chief,
or contrariwise some
like minded
thinkers, rack coon sitter
the migrant situation dire,
would effectively serve me
as preaching to
the Unitarian choir,
yet any sensate
person must admit
tis quite upsetting, lamenting,
and agonizing to witness
hordes of persons treated like
some pestilential
eyesore dagnabbit,
yes this chap can
endlessly spout flibbertigibbet,
though thee crux of my opinion,
inspires a poem express
sing supportive emotions
particularly acknowledging,
how these masses (thousands)
of vulnerable individuals
show true grit,
nonetheless yours truly,
would be hard pressed
for an immediate
humane solution to corral
this extensive kit
and caboodle, though this generic guy
with a poetic knack
shakes his noggin
watching armed flack
delivered from border patrol agents/
United States military, lack
restraint, and who outright attack
trespassers at point
blank range that pack,
a deadly (Judge Judy ish
huss) punch smack
king young ones
upside the head forcing
everyone to backtrack
to their homeland of
persecution by crack
headed gang members, which thugs
violently land a deadly whack!
Family love is born in little rooms,
around sofas, settees, dinner plates,
with paternal bond that strengthens and grooms,
unswerving link that lasts till heaven’s gates!
We were such family in a French town,
traditional, true, religious us four,
mother was good at making wedding gowns,
father a decorator ran paint store!
Sister and I watched German troops on streets,
Tuesday August year nineteen forty three,
parents held us close, could hear their heartbeat,
that was the last day we would all be free!
Dragged on to street by the Nazi soldiers,
our father was punched kicked and beaten blue,
we wept helpless, clung to mother’s shoulders,
that was the last of our father we knew!
Pulled away from mother and Sis I cried,
screaming imploring, no mercy, no heart,
that day for me when humanity died,
was day my family was torn apart!
Packed in a train suffocating with stench,
alone defeated waited journey’s end,
with dead and dying that made stomach wrench,
four days of thirst and suffering to spend.
I remember that train to Auschwitz well,
journey that destroyed many lives like mine,
where our love and hope to tyranny fell,
to death we were paraded in a line!
Six months past we heard exchange of fire,
that made evil enemy pack and run,
We were all rescued from behind barbed wire,
was still hope and goodness under the Sun!
When God smiles he smiles generously well,
lifts suffering souls from bottomless pit,
That day he was smiling we could all tell,
his eyes perhaps gleaming and face well lit!
Each life and hope with dignity restored,
we were treated, bathed clothed and given food,
In room of people saw face I adored,
sobbing with outstretched arms my mother stood!
United with mother back to my house,
and years of togetherness we would share,
on the wall hangs our striped prisoner blouse,
to tell trappings of hatred and its snare!
The train to Auschwitz took many to death,
guilt ridden, to and fro ran that train,
but tracks remain, hate may creep back in stealth!
train to Auschwitz should never run again!
Premier contest 6th placement
Written 09/April/2021
10 syllables each line (PS syllable count)
based on a true story as related by a 93 yr old Auschwitz survivor
The last train to Auschwitz poetry competition
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
You told me back when I was young,
That before we both grew
Old,
One day we'd live inside a mansion
Full of all the richest
Gold.
You said you'd give me diamonds, and write my
Name up in the sky
You said you knew it looked bad now,
But one day we could fly
At first, you were so gentle
And at first, I
Believed.
I thought you were my noble king, and I trusted
Your honesty
But you fell into an amber bottle, you got
Addicted to the drink
You bruised my all-too-innocent heart
And it started to sink
You took my wildest fairytales and
Spun them into dreams
No matter how unreal they were, no matter how
Out of reach.
You said we'd have a palace full of fancy, shiny things
Then you drenched it in your alcohol
Now it's not worth a thing
You said I'd be a princess, but I look
More like a toad.
I thought I'd own a horse-drawn
Carriage,
But I'm riding on a goat
I envisioned a golden crown, a sapphire-studded throne
You promised me glass castles,
But now you're casting
Stones
When you started hitting, you beat
Down my sense of pride
I wrapped my heart up in barbed wire
To protect its blackened
Eye
You shattered all my high hopes and trapped me inside
These walls
Now I live confined in shackles, a prisoner
Of a drunken war.
These words are my rebellion
I hope this pen can
Beat the sword
You murdered all my angels, and you
Sent them straight to Hell
You conquered me with demons when I thought you
Meant well
You sought only to own me, to isolate me here
With you
You're so afraid of burning, you'd drag me
Right down, too
I let you blind me with your lies,
Let you gag me with
Your ties
You ventured all the wrong places with your
Red and hazy eyes
It's bad enough that you demanded,
Even worse, you'd pass
The buck
But most tragic is the fact that I merely gave
It up
The mirrors are cracked and broken
From your constant booze-fueled
Brawl
The images are useless, and I can't see who you are at all
What happened to the sweet and loving
Person I once knew?
But thinking that, I have to laugh, because
That was never you
I softly egg you to confess, but
You tell me I'm to blame
For all of your misfortunes, and you bury me in shame
I'd be better off an orphan
This place could never be my home
You promised me glass castles
But now you're casting
Stones
"The Winter's Lullaby"
Choking noble light held by the hands of Fate
As deceived Persephone enters Hades gate
The burning suns falling through the universe.
Despairing and alone not a coppers worth
A bitter cold blankets Gaia's tears in a frozen sea of glass
While the stupefied intoxicated serpent drowned with a laugh.
Undulating sands barricades into immovable glacier,
Infectious prison walls destroyed the strength of redeeming savior.
Chariot of the flame plunges into the water’s bed
Fate’s tepid scarlet scissor hands sever the music thread
Astaea’s darkened soaked mural melts with eternal dread
Seeing red, alluring sirens sang as the music bled
Unfathomable lamented shrieks surged as the music tore
Obsidian tributaries erodes the forbidden door
Eros scorned wound feeds the ravished horde of succubi
Remote hollow temple bell wailed the closing cry
Captured in the dance of loves and hates tempest cyclone
Drums of madness orchestrates into the perfect tone
The infernal flame explodes from the mouth of Tartarus
Driven oblivion crescendos for the pending chorus
The stentorian cracks of nefarious shots being fired
Frantically gasping for the final breath of faith hope and desire
Tragic petrified tears from soundless screams of the choir
Condemned whisper of the drum crucified on barbed wire
Cold candle rests under the gaze of the vastness
No kiss or love to awake the entombed princess
Crimson emaciated curtains descend upon the floor
Fathomless, eviscerated, veiled; the music is no more
Form:
I lay my head down to sleep to the calm and peaceful sound of music flowing through the thick trees cruising from the subdivision below my dwelling.The rhythmic sounds of crickets and frogs composed a beautiful sympony and spawned a strange unfamiliar song that lay motionless on my ear, forcing me to absorb the quiet scent of the night and fall asleep without fear.In the dead heat of the night something thrust me from my bed and I found myself in the tumult of everyday life wrestling with the bearded probe again .I discovered my truck in a parking lot with bright white paint applied to the side. A sheet of paper lays flat in the windscreen bearing a name and number "Why should someone paint my truck in white", I muttered silently to myself.This strange happening propelled me to anxiously called the number.A high pitched voice woman answered the phone and gave me directions to find her. I drove endlessly humming a tune until I ended up on the other side of town. As tacky as it seemed and as gloomy as it appeared I entered the place without fear. I parked outside an unpaved parking lot and entered a tall gigantic apartment building and walked up the stairs. Suddenly two young women met me half way and told me that they would take me to the person who painted my truck .All three of us ventured down the stairs and pounced upon a confused crowd of people walking aimlessly up and down the streets while motor vehicles sprawled out everywhere.We hurriedly walked passed a depot and saw hard working men dressed in military suits standing next to barbed wire fences loading people urgently into trucks.They were recruiting barbers and people with skills to join them while screaming and shouting as if they were on the auction block. Many people boarded the truck but we shoved our way through the crowd until we reached a crowded market. The two young woman suddenly disappeared and left me alone standing there.I searched for my truck but I could not find it.Dawn brought the night's fury to an end and I was relieved to be back to reality again.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Born in 1915 at Birkenhead by the Port River Inlet
A son of Port Adelaide as one of the best youd get
In the days before bridges he would row
Across the river to training and games hed go
He debuted for the Magpies in 1936 at Alberton
And was the best player in that game then
Winning the 1938 Magarey Medal as the best in the league
He was one who epitomises the best of the Creed
Then in 1939 he captain coached the Magpies
To the third premiership after the ones in 1936 and 1937 as Football wise
But war clouds were gathering and he heard the bugle call then
Enlisting in second 43 Battalion in June 1940 as a warrant officer second class his country to defend
Off to North Africa he sailed with his mates
To Libya and Tobruk battlefields his life risked to fate
Then on the 3 August 1941 who took command of the 10 platoon
At the siege of Tobruk to blow a barbed wire machine gun soon
He told his men that death was near
As the Germans poured on fire across the battlefield clear
And he would lay the last Bangalore explosive torpedo
The most dangerous one to place near the machine gun hed go
Only three of the seven survived in the heavy fire
With Quinns turn the next the danger so dire
And he was hit by shrapnel in the top of the thigh
Being hit in the head again the bullets flying by
On top of this a wounded mate called out
And he took him up on his back to the trench after the shout
The machine gun was silenced in the mission success
A Military Medal was awarded to Quinn as one of the best
When his wounds healed he was promoted to lieutenant
And to the Pacific War defending Australia he was sent
And in September 1943 in New Guinea he was injured severely
In his knee arm and face which could have cost his football dearly
But he made it through those broken years
Returning to Adelaide and more football cheers
To win a second Magarey Medal in 1945 an accolade
As captain coach of Port Adelaide
So we remember this brave man
Of the battlefield and Aussie Rules oval grand
Two Magarey Medals three premierships four best and fairest medals 15 times played for South Australia and All Australian player
With a Military Medal on the battlefield a brave ANZAC soldier.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Lightning flashes across the chilly midnight sky.
A warrior rises from the ashes to be a Poetic Samurai.
Metaphorically his blazing Katanna blade is just a mere black pen.
His poetry is like an explosion from a grenade leaving poets in ruin!
He scribbles out names of poets he's slain, and ponders who is next.
The rain beats against the window pane, and he wonders of the last poetess he sexed.
He made passionate love to her mind, and did things no other man had done.
The pen was a sweet taste of sin when he ate her from behind just for fun!
After awhile with a smile he discarded her like a rag doll, and focused solely on her boyfriend.
The Samurai was determined to poetically kill this slime ball after he was done with his girl
for a weekend.
But the boyfriend was jealous and shaking with rage, and he challenged the Poetic Samurai.
Poetry Soup would be the main stage, for it was do-or-die, and this battle begin to intensify.
The Poetic Samurai dominated the poetesses boy toy by placing him in a casket and burying
him alive!
This demonic poetic warrior was determined to destroy, and he wanted no one to survive!
The Samurai battled the poetess and her whole click, spreading terror like the swine flu!
The boyfriend got poetically sick, and the samurai beat their cheerleaders black and blue!
The poetess, her boyfriend and their soup friends were furious, because of the Samurai's
poetic slams.
So the boyfriend got personal and serious, because the samurai ate the boyfriends green
eggs and ham!
The boyfriend could not stomach the samurai's poetic food, so he ran and pulled up the
Samurai's criminal background.
But the Samurai is a poetic warrior and he continued to smash the dude into the ground
leaving his girlfriend spellbound!
It is said the boyfriend is poetically dead, he eventually committed suicide!
The Samurai left a trail of bloodshed across the soup and worldwide.
It is said the poetess ran away, she could not take it anymore.
I guess being sliced and diced by poetic swordplay was hard to ignore!
So the Poetic Samurai begins to retire, but he keeps his pen ready for a challenger.
He patiently waits to wrap another poet in barbed wire and swing the Excaliber!!!
REGULATIONS
BY
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Two sources of laws that govern the lives of men
One’s called survival the other a stroke of the pen
Those from survival are easy to list
Food, water and shelter so we can exist
Those from mans hand are often not clear
A crime over there is legal over here
Man’s laws may be admirable at their writing
Later found questionable at their citing
Laws, ordinances , regulations or policy norm
With so many restrictions not easy to conform
Don’t forget rules they’re important as well
Am I acting legally or awaiting a cell
Take the sinister case of the berlin wall
Many tried to cross it only to fall
It had been prohibited to go to the west
Any attempt to flee would result in arrest
One night a defector was fatally shot
Hung over barbed wire destined to rot
Then guess what happened the very next day
Passed a law if you want to go west “ its ok”
An example of a law that caused men to die
An illegal extortion forcing free men to defy
There are needs for law and order to protect
Each new law tightens the noose on a citizens neck
The penalty for breaking a law way back when
Put the guilty in leg blocks or a public pen
Shame him in front of neighbors and friends
Humiliation may cause his lawlessness to end
The initial mandate of imposing a fine
Worked quite well for a very long time
Regulations(2)
It became so lucrative new laws were soon due
Pile on new charges, generate more revenue
A man runs a red light cops are hot on his tail
There’s so many charges he may not make bail
Want to change the house color from tan to gray
Need to get permission from a hundred miles away
Redo these doors on the inside of my flat
Got to submit plans and a copy of the plat
It just gets tougher each request causes a fuss
Easier for the government to keep a rein on us
To control the masses is an easy feat
They just add more laws just never delete
It’s easy to have contempt for so many laws
The enforcement of them is loaded with flaws
A girl with drugs gets years of incarceration
Drunken teenager kills four receives probation
Additional laws will make us quiet as a mouse
You’ll soon need a permit to leave the house
Hate is a sharp inheritance.
I did not ask for it.
It grew in me like a second skeleton—
not born, but built
in the blue-lit silence after fists,
in the wreckage of rooms where my name was a curse
and my voice was a threat to authority.
My family—
a word that still makes my mouth taste like pennies—
taught me that love was conditional,
a ledger of wounds and withholding.
They told me I was nothing,
and I believed them,
until I learned that hatred could speak louder than grief.
I wore it like a crown.
No, like barbed wire—wrapped tight,
a defence that cut me while keeping others out.
I hated them so much I began to look like them.
And then I hated myself.
I set my life on fire to stay warm.
Ashes don’t judge,
and pills don’t ask where you’ve been.
Cocaine doesn’t care who you are.
It just opens its arms
and lets you forget.
I disappeared into alleys,
slept in the spaces between streetlights,
made deals with men who had eyes like broken windows
and promises stitched with rot.
I stole. I lied. I bled on floors that had no memory of me.
I called this freedom.
But it was just exile with better lighting.
I was dying—slowly, quietly,
like a candle in a room with no air—
and no one noticed.
Except the hate.
It always noticed.
It whispered, “Good.”
It wasn’t redemption that saved me.
It wasn’t a miracle.
It was exhaustion.
One day, I just got tired of being hollow.
Tired of the rage swallowing my name,
tired of the story they wrote for me
playing on repeat inside my skull.
Forgiveness didn’t come like light.
It came like water—slow, seeping through
the cracks I didn’t know were still open.
I didn’t forgive them to free them.
I forgave them so they’d stop living inside me
rent-free,
destroying the furniture of my becoming.
I started over—stone by stone,
reminding my body it was not a crime scene.
Telling my reflection:
You are not what they did to you.
You are not the bruises,
the rage,
the ache that made you use.
You are not the hate that almost won.
And now, I speak with a voice that carries weight,
not weapons.
I build with hands once taught to break.
I am living proof
that even scorched earth
can choose to bloom.
Forest Sun
Laid out to pasture the company doesn’t want us
We got our severance pay then thanked them
Like they thanked us the day they made us sign
We belonged to them then we were slaves
Made to work in the forest cutting down trees
Or in lead mines manually extracting the ore
Many died for it was lethal work out in the sticks
The dead were replaced by new forced workers
One in one out from the endless supply of bodies
As bodies many left unless they had longevity
Being able to endure and do that for decades
Till they were purloined off with severance pay
The end of a hard unique journey taken by them
How many made it to the end point do they know?
There were more dead than alive in the death factory
Of course they knew it was all documented
They lived and died by numbers for it was a system
Made by humans turning them all into slaves
In dusty files in archives their names will be recorded
The moment they became numbers in the system
Just as I was taken off our family farm by soldiers
Only a little older than myself and put into service
I never saw my parents or sister ever again
Some were made into soldiers other workers
Who decided this somebody who was near and far
I was forced to mine lead but I wasn’t so strong
They put me in the forests cutting down trees
I was there most of my time with them working
It was just like the farm and I secretly loved it
I even met my forest wife and we had three kids
They were schooled into the system by them
And eventually became wood cutters too
So my lot wasn’t too bad for me was it?
I was secretly paid off when I was too old to cut
I still lived in my small wooden hut within their land
They owned all the forest and steppes all of it
I didn’t want to escape for this was my home
Even if it was my prison all this time
I had no bars or barbed wire or faced guns or dogs
Thousands of miles of nothing surrounded us
If a man escaped where would he go the Moon?
I was the lucky one and gave my wife my final pay
Then I finally sat down to watch the trees and sun
cool goth art cool title cool writing my new ebook free for a while
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